


Michael

by second_skin



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Demon Sex, F/M, Plot What Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-21
Updated: 2012-07-21
Packaged: 2017-11-10 09:27:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 751
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/464751
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/second_skin/pseuds/second_skin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>Halloween-inspired light pwp. The title character in this story happens to look a lot like Michael Fassbender.</em>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Michael

**Author's Note:**

  * For [fengirl88](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fengirl88/gifts).



 

She learned the trick of conjuring Michael on a trip to New Orleans, just after the unpleasantness of her husband's trial and execution. The dark-eyed woman playing at being a gypsy fortune teller took one look at her client and seemed to understand, to empathize. She put away the Tarot cards and led Mrs Hudson through the archaic language of the spell over and over until she had it memorized.

You see, a woman alone--after a certain age--can't be slinking into clubs or expecting to meet a suitable lady or gentleman in the salves and ointments aisle at Tesco. Sadly, no. And yes, the Internet is fine if you want all that small talk and coffee, and "Tell me more about your coin collection--it does sound fascinating." But sometimes it's just guaranteed satisfaction a person craves, isn't it?

Michael is, according to his cv, a _Demon Lover, First Class_. Made of hellfire and testosterone, and with a rumbling baritone that wipes all rational thought from her mind the instant he speaks. But she doesn't think "demon," when she summons him. She thinks "angel," as his name implies. Well, _fallen angel_ , perhaps. He ministers to her in ways that her priest might not strictly approve of, after all. Oh God, yes--he certainly does.

Her angel Michael doesn't have wings. He has shoulder blades that are sharp enough--she imagines--to slice her palms as she drags her hands down his back while undressing him. He's always in a tight, expensive suit that can barely contain the perfectly defined muscles of his thighs and arms. His arms. They make her mouth go dry, just looking at them--and when he wraps them around her she can't breath--until he kisses her and the breath comes back gasping and fast and shallow. Mixing with his breath (bitter chocolate, blood oranges, red wine?) in the space between them.

He wears a white linen shirt, open at the collar to tease her with his long, edible neck. And he often wears a rakish hat that casts a shadow over part of his face. He wants her to have to search for his eyes, and when she finds them he laughs at the visible shiver of anticipation. The lust and want in her own blue eyes excite him, he says.

His shoulders are broad and his waist is slim. His hands are long-fingered and always so cool--icy--against her hot, sweaty skin. She leaves the light on and watches those hands move across her body, which suddenly looks younger, more beautiful as he touches it. She sees the veins on the backs of his hands rise like those of a pianist at work. Pale hands moving quickly to bring melody and harmony together.

His mouth and tongue are hot and wet; they search out the coldest, loneliest spots on her collarbone, her hip, her ankle--and then the heat and moisture spreads from his lips up and down her body, penetrating into and under her skin. Finally she's floating with him, lifted up and away from gravity and age and consciousness. She's inside a dark silk cocoon, feeling only Michael's weight and intensity filling her, pulling her into a cycle of climax and rest, climax and rest, climax and rest that goes on through the night until dawn.

But with the sunrise, and a whispered goodbye, he joins all the demon lovers of London to catch the first train at King's Cross, back to the deep green countryside where they sleep until the next call comes.

And what is the price she pays for all this? Each time, he asks for just one soul. Only a recommendation, really--she doesn't have to get her hands dirty, so to speak--doesn't have to help bring someone into the fold. He can handle that bit of seduction on his own. He always just asks if there is a man who might be amenable to selling himself to the Other Side in exchange for power, insight, prestige?

 

And so far, luckily, Mrs. Hudson has been able to provide a name each time, so that Michael keeps coming back again and again and again. Next time, perhaps she'll mention Sherlock's new friend. At first she thought he seemed not quite the right type--a little too quiet, to fond of sitting down. Lacking the taste for power and glory that Sherlock has. But now she's changed her mind. Yes, next time she'll tell Michael about John.

 


End file.
